I.
I confessed a love
you were never to hear of.
I confessed in the strongest of forms, pen to paper.
I wrote and signed my confession like a death warrant.
Signing off on your love and giving you the authority to **** me.
You always did take your job a little too seriously.
Now my sentences are not jumbled but in a solid structure, for you.
II.
I find it impossible to write
of my first love.
I could endlessly write smoking metaphors or over-analyse the looks I catch between strangers on the street.
I could give you ten reasons why I love spring and yellow flowers,
but I could not write more than ten words about my first love.
I do not wonder how he spends his time, I do not care of the 'man' he grows to be.
Nor do I direct sentences towards him because to me he does not exist.
He died on that December day, since then I have spoken with the ghost of a fifteen year old boy that spit poison down my throat then died, claiming to be Romeo.
That is not how the story goes.
III.
i am, i am, I am.
before I knew you, I would have described you in worryingly accurate detail as my ideal.
now I know you, I simply say your name.
a thousand years
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 8:16 PM UTC
I.
I confessed a love
you were never to hear of.
I confessed in the strongest of forms, pen to paper.
I wrote and signed my confession like a death warrant.
Signing off on your love and giving you the authority to **** me.
You always did take your job a little too seriously.
Now my sentences are not jumbled but in a solid structure, for you.
II.
I find it impossible to write
of my first love.
I could endlessly write smoking metaphors or over-analyse the looks I catch between strangers on the street.
I could give you ten reasons why I love spring and yellow flowers,
but I could not write more than ten words about my first love.
I do not wonder how he spends his time, I do not care of the 'man' he grows to be.
Nor do I direct sentences towards him because to me he does not exist.
He died on that December day, since then I have spoken with the ghost of a fifteen year old boy that spit poison down my throat then died, claiming to be Romeo.
That is not how the story goes.
III.
i am, i am, I am.
before I knew you, I would have described you in worryingly accurate detail as my ideal.
now I know you, I simply say your name.
a thousand years
